


The British Secret

by aphdoitsu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-04-16 11:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14163819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphdoitsu/pseuds/aphdoitsu
Summary: Italy and Germany are close. Naturally so, after all, they are best friends forever.However, they both have deeper and more meaningful feelings for each other. What will it take for them to realize just how profound their feelings truly are and how can Britain be of any help?// SEMI-HIATUS! I MAY BE BACK SOON -Written 03. January 2019- //





	1. I once killed a man

**Author's Note:**

> This story is rated Explicit for content suitable for adults only. This story contains detailed descriptions of physical interaction of violent nature, explicit adult language, and other adult themes. If easily triggered or disturbed, read at your own risk!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope that you enjoy this first chapter of 'The British Secret'! This story is rated Explicit, but not the entirety of this story will fall under the Explicit rating (this chapter sure doesn't). Please, however, do know your own boundaries and do not cross those if it triggers any negative emotions that you would rather not have to deal with. I promise that I will give further warnings before the chapters that need so. Remember that this is fiction and is for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> I will gladly take any positive, as well as constructive feedback, so feel free to speak your minds. If you notice any minor (or even major) grammar slip-ups, let me know and I will fix it as quickly as I can.
> 
> All love, Signe~

Italy tossed in his bed. He pulled the heated duvet blanket tighter around himself, knowing that outside Germany was waiting, and impatiently so. He also knew that he had overslept again, judging by the fact that the bedroom door was open, and that he could hear Germany's steps approaching at a rapid pace. Staring blankly at the ceiling, he sighed, wanting nothing more than to sleep for another hour. Germany's stupid and unnecessary plans always conflicted with his wishes. Italy closed his eyes, pretending to be sound asleep just as Germany entered the room.

"I'm serious, you're getting up. Now," Germany said. His stern voice was an indicator of no good; Germany was reaching his last nerve. "We were supposed to start running our laps twenty-six minutes ago, and if we're going to finish in time for the United Nations meeting we need to be out in…”

Opening his eyes slightly, Italy examined Germany from the corner of his eye, peeking through his ruffled hair. Germany checked his wristwatch, waiting for a few seconds.

"…exactly seven minutes," he finally finished. He readjusted the way it sat around his wrist before looking up.

Cold, sky-blue eyes met Italy's warm, hazel ones only for a brief moment.

Italy's cheeks flushed red, and he shut his eyes, pretending that he was still asleep and that he had been the whole while. Lately, red-flushed cheeks, tripping over his own words, and seemingly forgetting how to breathe had been Italy's reaction every time the German looked at him. He didn't understand why, while Germany never even seemed to notice.

Germany coughed and let a heavy sigh heave through his lips. He leaned against the frame of the door, the wood creaking under his massive form and weight, and he looked impatiently at Italy. His cold sight tickled Italy's warm skin; goosebumps scattered across his arms and his body shuddered slightly.

"Remember, Italy. I once killed a man in his sleep – with his own mustache and a grape."

Once again peeping up at Germany through squinted eyelids and dark eyelashes, Italy assumed that this wasn't a true story. Still, when he heard those words coming from Germany, he felt his heart race a little quicker and his breath hitch; he suddenly feared to breathe too loudly. He tried to assure himself that Germany would never commit such a serious crime. However, he was sure Germany was capable of it. He was strong and smart and athletic and capable of so many things that Italy felt useless compared to him.

"One single grape and his own bushy mustache. Who would've guessed that was such a deadly duo?" There was a pause as if Germany expected an answer or some sort of reaction. "You know, soon I could be warning others with an even more impressive and interesting threat."

A silly, uncommon laugh escaped Germany and Italy couldn't help but smile a little and laugh himself. This was such a cute and quite surprising laugh that he barely ever got to hear, but hearing it was music to his ears and an extra beat of his heart.

"I once killed a man in his sleep – with his weird, Italian hair-curl and a single straw of pasta."

Italy's eyes shot open, he sat up and stared at Germany, both in a terrified and defeated matter. He was met with a wonderful and rare sight – Germany with a mischievous smile, a hand to his lips, and a slight cock to his head. His strong arms lay crossed over his defined chest. His hair was pulled back and nearly reflected the soothing morning sun from the window. Not one of the beautifully golden strands seemed out-of-place. Germany's face was light in color, his nose slightly scrunched up, and his brows knitted together, forming a small crease between them. His massive form was clothed in a tight, black tank top and a pair of military green pants. Over his shoulders he had pulled a brown and light jacket. His hands were tucked into tight-fitting, black gloves, and his feet hid within shiny, and recently polished, combat boots. Germany insisted on wearing them, even if they looked extremely heavy and hard to run fast in. It may as well be part of the exercise for him.

Germany checked his watch again. His sight remained fixated on the watch and for a while he said nothing at all. It was silent, save for the quiet sound of breathing and a few gusts of wind rattling the window frame.

When Germany's gaze flicked in a new direction, Italy expected him to mention how much time they had already wasted, but he didn't. Instead, he turned on his heel and began pacing back downstairs. He stopped and talked over his shoulder.

"Get dressed. Remember that it is not summer anymore, so put on something warm, please. I do not want to deal with you if you catch a cold."

A sudden pause. An awkward silence. Germany had stopped walking but didn't look back in Italy's direction. It took Italy a little longer than he would've liked to realize that he was expected to answer. He opened his mouth about to answer, but stopped and closed his mouth. He looked down, thought for a few seconds, looked back up at Germany, and opened his mouth again.

"Germany?"

He paused and quickly looked at the floor, waiting for Germany to say something. He received nothing and simply continued.

"Do we really need to run laps and work out and all that stuff? I don't like running or doing push-ups or sit-ups or any of it, really! It's useless, don't you think?"

There was silence once again and within its embrace, Italy came to the realization that he had said too much. With his hands resting in his lap, his eyes unwillingly fell back on Germany even if he wanted to look in any other direction.

He was rather surprised to see him turn around. Their eyes met, contrasting with each other for what seemed like an eternity, and Italy was unable to look away. Germany's face revealed nothing, and his mouth was only a line drawn across his pale, porcelain face. His eyes, though. His eyes looked so mesmerizing. They didn't sparkle. They didn't do anything special – they surely did not shoot lasers or rainbows or puppies. They were a normal pair of bright blue eyes, frightening and beautiful all the same.

As ordinary as they were, Italy still couldn’t do anything in his power to look away. His heart was pounding, blood rushing to his cheeks, time slowing around him, and his breath feeling heavy through his lungs. He was being sucked into Germany's eyes, as if they were black holes that pulled everything – even light and time itself – along with its massive gravitational pull.

 

Italy finally pulled his gaze away from Germany's eyes. His chest was aching from the wild heartbeat inside of it; his breath was caught in his throat as his stomach churned uncomfortably. The sensation would be enough to make him puke if it wasn't for the fact that he hadn't eaten anything since the day before. With a rapid pace of heart, Italy shot up from the bed, his face warm as that of the sun on a summer day. Making sure that he didn't lock eyes with the German again, he turned to make the bed and straightened the covers, wiping it with a gentle hand over and over again.

"Yes, we do really need to run laps. We need to maintain both our stamina and strength because we never know when a potential enemy might attack," Germany answered after a while, heaving a loud and exaggerated sigh. "Three minutes!" he so informed, disappearing out the door and stomping heavily down the stairs.

**

Although Italy hated getting up early to run laps, he wasn't in a bad mood for long. That was truly one of his not so hidden talents. Even if he was having a terrible day and technically should've been in a horrible mood, he was unable to; at least for extended periods of time. So, though he hated early mornings and terribly exhausting exercise sessions, he still giggled and hummed songs to the sunlit room.

While removing the shirt he had been wearing that night – a far too large shirt he had  _borrowed_  from Germany – he sang a short tune, and when washing his face he giggled and smiled. He clothed himself in the sailor's outfit, clearly disobeying Germany's wish for him to dress warmly. Then he left the bedroom to finally meet downstairs, waving his arms by the side of his body.

With light, happy steps he skipped down the stairs. Under him a plank creaked under his weight. At the bottom of the staircase Germany was waiting, his arms wide open. Examining his muscular body, Italy once again felt the heat rise to his cheeks. It was all just part of the same routine as always – they always hugged in the morning. Yet, all of Italy’s previous thoughts dissolved into puffs of smoke and his heart fluttered in his chest as if threatening to take off and fly into space.

Italy jumped from the seventh step, opened his arms wide, and fell into Germany's strong arms. Germany held tightly around Italy, not even slightly phased by the acceleration and sudden stop.

" _Buongiorno,_  Germany!" Italy exclaimed while tangling his arms around Germany's neck, careful not to mess up the golden crown of his.

"Ja. Good morning, Italy," Germany replied, patting Italy's back so gently that he seemed terrified of breaking Italy into a million pieces. "Now, go put on your boots and a jacket. You're going to catch a cold if you dress that recklessly."

Germany lowered Italy to the floor and unwrapped his arms from around his tiny waist. Italy stared past Germany. His whole face resembled a question mark as he tried to think of what the strict nation was forgetting that morning.

"Breakfast?" he asked. There were a slight disbelief and a greater extent of confusion in his voice.

Germany only shook his head as a response and checked his watch again. He had checked it so often that morning alone that Italy thought it might just be an obsession he has. Tip-toeing and casting a brief look at it, Italy tried to make up the time as he was seeing it upside down. Almost nine. Way too early to be out and about.

"You overslept, Italy. By a lot! If we go run our laps right now, you might have time to eat brunch before the meeting. If you waste more time, you won’t. You know it’s as simple as that."

Now there was a greater and overshadowing degree of unhappiness written across Italy's already somber expression. He was a stereotypical Italian, one-hundred percent so, he would admit that much. If Germany believed that he would agree on waiting until brunch, then he was a crazy man!

"That's so unfair!" he cried, leaning his head back slightly and puffing his cheeks like a blowfish.             

                                                         

Italy tried to think of instances when he had convinced Germany to do as  _he_  pleased. He managed to convince him to have either pasta, pizza or some other typical Italian dish for dinner almost every day. When they went to the store each Saturday to buy needed groceries for the week ahead, he always convinced him into buying way more gelato than two people would ever need. He also convinced him to listen to his favorite Italian musicians, even though Germany told him no from the get-go. In fact, he was rather talented at convincing the generally unconvinced German. He did it daily.

" _Per favore,_  can I please have breakfast, I promise, I'll be quick! Please!" he begged, bouncing on the balls of his feet, jumping closer to the German whilst reaching his arms up to him. He thought for a short while, trying to remember some of the German that Germany had desperately tried to teach him during the war. He wasn't entirely sure if he was saying it correctly or if it was even a German word at all, and if it was, he wasn't completely sure if it meant what he hoped it meant,  _"Bitte?"_

Italy stopped jumping, his face only a few centimeters from Germany’s. He held a sweet smile on his face, sending the German a pleading stare. But it was of no use, and Italy knew.

" _Nein_ , Italien. You can't,” was the answer he got in a stern tone of voice. Germany pushed the smaller country away, using a gentle but firm hand.

Along with the strict tone, there was also an annoyance and disappointment hidden in Germany's voice. It was an annoyance Italy was used to hearing, and if he was going to be perfectly honest, it hurt him to hear it. It made him feel like nothing more than a liability. Italy, sadly, felt like this on many occasions, like when Germany yells at him both before, during, and after UN-meetings, or when he gets annoyed at him for skipping training to watch clouds instead. Italy knew that Germany wasn't intentionally hurting him, however, it still made him sad beyond his own understanding.

"You overslept. Now, we're going to run our laps and go to the UN-meeting where you will participate. End of discussion. Dismissed."

"But-"

_“Nein!”_ Germany yelled with a raised voice. Italy winced and took a step back, turning his gaze away from the cold, blue stare.

Germany sighed. In the corner of his eyes, Italy could see that he turned his head to look at something else. Rather, someone else. Japan. The smaller country, known for sensing the mood, had remained silent. Japan was more often than not quiet whenever Germany and Italy were having a discussion, often so quiet that they forgot he was even there. This was one of those times. Just realizing that Japan had been present the whole time, Italy studied him, and it was clear to him that Japan found this situation very awkward.

Truth was, Japan often witnessed scenarios like this. Such as during the war, when Italy and Germany argued loudly during an Axis-meeting at a fancy five-star restaurant. Germany had told Italy to order something other than a typical Italian dish, as it wasn't appropriate to eat at such a meeting. Of course, Italy ordered just that and then mocked Germany for ordering wurst with potatoes. It quickly turned into a heated argument about what foods were appropriate to eat during an important meeting, and poor Japan could do nothing but watch in awkward silence. It ended with the meeting going nowhere because the three of them were kicked out of the restaurant. Italy would admit that it was the reasonable thing for the managers to do, while Germany spent fifteen whole minutes arguing with them before giving up.

Japan noticed that Italy and Germany expected him to say something in favor of themselves, but Japan only shot his sight to his fidgeting hands and remained silent.

As usual, there was no help from Japan. Italy sighed in unison with Germany, and caught themselves glaring at the other. Knowing that there wasn't any use in further arguing with his stubborn ally, Italy turned to smile at Germany, defeated.

"Okay, fine, fine. The discussion is over," he said, then turned on his heel.

There was nothing else to do other than obey the given orders. Therefore, he found his jacket and stepped into his boots. He also picked up a colorful, northern-lights inspired scarf, knitted by Germany himself, and twirled it around his neck.

As always, Italy wasn't in a bad mood for long. Only a minute later he smiled, giggled, and hummed songs to himself. Italy turned back to Germany and waved him over, signaling that he was ready to go. Germany, who seemed eager to finally get started thirty-nine minutes after the set time, stepped over to him. He made sure Italy's knitted scarf was covering his bare neck properly, closed his jacket, straightened a wrinkle with his clothed hands, and kneeled to tie the shoelaces.

Italy couldn't help but giggle. In his eyes, Germany was too uptight and too worried for his own good.

When Germany was sure that Italy wouldn’t trip over untied shoelaces, he walked past him and opened the front door wide. A cold mid-autumn gust of wind stroked him over his face, tainting his porcelain cheeks with a rosy red, and blew one of his golden strands of hair down in front of his eyes. He was quick to pull it away from his face, back to its respective spot alongside the rest of his blonde hair. Germany examined the sky above his head, trying to predict the weather. Even Italy could see that there were a few dark clouds hovering above, but they seemed harmless as the wind blew them in the opposite direction, away from their part of town.

"Only twenty-five laps today," Germany concluded. He stepped down the stairs and walked towards the usual start location for their daily laps.

Italy instantly skipped after him and clung to Germany's arm once he caught up to him. He enthusiastically told the German about a new recipe he wanted to try for dinner later that evening, and the  _best friend forever_ tried his best to seem interested by nodding his head and saying yes occasionally. Japan followed silently behind them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> _Buongiorno_ : Good morning  
>  _Per favore_ : Please  
>  _Bitte_ : Please  
>  _Nein_ : No


	2. An Italian crush

The three Axis countries were already far into their twenty-five laps. It had just passed nine-thirty and every time one of the three countries exhaled, a cloud of morning condensation appeared in front of their faces before dissolving completely. It was almost October but though the temperature usually stayed below five degrees Celsius for the entirety of the day, Germany wasn’t stopped in his path of forcing Italy and Japan to run laps early in the cold mornings. 

Italy had long ago dropped behind the two others. His face was a shiny mess, his breath uneven and heavy, and his stomach growled loudly - sounding almost as a million sheep, all making noise at once while slamming their hooves into the muddy grass. His feet, tired of holding Italy’s upper body stabilized, barely even moved anymore, and his arms slashed through the sharp air. The wind blew his hair in front of his eyes and the inexplicable curl of his bounced up and down with each tired step he forced himself to take. 

Germany, surprisingly enough, wasn’t that far ahead of Italy – Italy was able to study his broad shoulders and defined shoulder blades clearly from where he was. Italy knew that it wasn’t because  _ he _  was running at a fast pace. It was because Germany was doing the opposite. Germany was  _ slacking  _ – for Italy’s sake. Italy was aware of this and it puzzled him somehow. Was Germany seeing him as a liability? Was he slacking to keep an eye on him? Italy could imagine Germany’s annoyed facial expression and his loud sighs of disappointment. Surely, that wasn’t it! 

“It’s only four more laps! I know that you can overcome that!” Germany yelled encouraging over his shoulder. He turned his head slightly so that Italy could hear him clearly and to make sure Italy was there at all. 

When Germany spoke, Italy was made even more aware of the fact that the capable German didn’t push himself to his own maximum; let alone his personal minimum. Germany didn’t seem phased at all! His breath wasn’t anywhere near as uneven and heavy as Italy’s, and he still looked as pristine as always. Italy blushed a bit, seeing that he was overwhelmed by a task that Germany didn’t find challenging whatsoever. 

Running past the row of sturdy, brown brick fences surrounding the plots of grand, German-style homes, all being quite similar, yet all a little different from one another, Italy’s sight was driven to the passing homes. The plots had large, green lawns leading up to the beautiful home and wonderful gardens of flowers of all sorts around the walls. Some of the lawns had benches placed under the shade of magnificent oak trees, and Italy could imagine the owners sitting down on the bench on a sunny afternoon to enjoy a snack and a good book. Other homes had a tire hanging from one of the branches of a tree and Italy could imagine children inviting over their friends to laugh and play, pushing each other so that they could reach for the heavens and touch the stars. Outside one of the homes, a man was accompanied by his dog, throwing a stick across the lawn, then cuddling the dog when he came running back with it in his mouth. All the houses in this neighborhood were of a beige, quite sturdy brick, with slanted stone-brick roofs. The windows were tall and slim, with wooden shades attached on the outside. The front doors were of oak and looked pristine – polished, large, and grand. Every house looked the same on the outside, but Italy was sure that the insides and the unique people living there made them different and outstanding. The total of four floors probably looked so different and the people, with personalities, dreams, love interests, problems, and stories probably gave the home an entirely different feel than any of the other homes of the same sort. 

Italy was rather interested in who his neighbors were and how his neighbors dressed the insides of their homes, so he often found himself visiting. 

To the left of Germany and Italy’s house lived an elderly couple, with draped, flower-print curtains; mustard-cushioned couches; and rugs that they apparently bought at a fair back when they were young and just married. Italy adored staying at their place since they always prepared nice tea and tons of cookies, cakes and other pastries. Germany would open the door for him in the evening after visits and Italy’s hands would be full of leftover cookies and paper-wrapped, freshly baked bread for Germany and Italy to enjoy. His forehead was often stained with the red lipstick of the elderly woman’s tender goodbye kisses, who loved having Italy over because he was such  _ a sweet young boy. _

To the right for Germany and Italy’s house lived a family of five. The mother was a sweet, slender woman. She always wore lace dresses with spaghetti straps and her blonde hair in complicated side braids. Her two-year-old daughter was always to be seen on her arm. The father was a hardworking carpenter, with blonde, graying hair. He seemed to be a bit older than his wife, but together they seemed the happiest. Alongside their two-year-old daughter, they had been blessed with two older children, ages four and seven. They were both boys and they loved playing with Italy – they would jump in their parents’ double bed, play hide and seek behind the furniture and draw pictures around the dining table. When day turned into afternoon and afternoon into evening, Italy would put them to bed by reading a bedtime story or singing an Italian lullaby. He would kiss their cheeks sweetly and softly mutter, “I love you both”, before closing the bedroom door and helping the parents pick up all the toys from the floor. Unlike the elderly couple’s home, which was muted and calm, their home was loud and always full of life and adventures and laughter. Italy would always come home in the evening with bruised knees and drawings dedicated to him, cute pictures with poorly drawn stick figures and messy handwriting spelling “ _ Vi lov ju Felischano _ ”. 

Right now, Italy examined the houses and remembered the wonderful people he met inside to keep himself distracted. Once he turned his sight back to Germany and stared into his beautiful golden hair, he realized just how exhausted he actually was. His heart raced behind his chest, his breath was caught up in his throat and his stomach was so upset he felt he was about to throw up. Italy knew he had to take a break  _ soon _ and slowed down to a stop. His head was spinning – the bright blue of the sky merging with the dark, gray color of the pavement underneath him. He tried to calm his breath but only felt his stomach churning in discomfort and the blood pumping behind his temples. 

“Uh – Germany, please, stop,” he forced out between heavy breaths. “I – I can’t.” 

With that, Italy’s knees failed to keep his upper body stabilized any longer. His brain panicked as he - way too suddenly - saw the ground come flying towards him. He didn’t have enough time to react to what was happening but let out a loud, pained scream when his face was crushed by the rough pavement. His sight turned bloody, and his ears began ringing like bells in the Church tower on Sunday morning. Italy still wasn’t entirely updated with the news of what was happening, so he panicked. His breath was in his throat and his lips were quivering. Instinctively, he opened his mouth to call for Germany. His stomach growled and, though he shouldn’t due to the circumstances, he couldn’t help but think of food. Pasta, pizza, some other typical Italian dish, hell, even German  _ nudeln _  or the even more terrible wurst with mashed potatoes would make the cut for him right now. His stomach growled even louder. Even when his face was a crushed mess, all the small Italian could think of was food, and it was to be expected when he hadn't eaten in a long time. 

Italy started forming a ‘Ger’ sound with his mouth but instead of sounds, he was greeted with blood. The sight of blood in his eyes and the fluids through his open lips was enough to black him out. 

* * *

Italy’s scream, of what seemed to be an agonizing pain, echoed through the chilly September air and Germany’s hypersensitive ears, which were especially sensitive to any sound produced by Italy, caught it immediately.

A chill. A sensation of fright and fear built up inside of Germany, shooting through his veins like an electrical shock. He stopped abruptly, spun on his heel and stared in the direction of his  _ best friend forever _ . His eyes widened instantly, panic flushed over him like big, blue waves flushing over sand – washing away every trace, every evidence, every print. Just like that, the panic flushed away any other emotion that the seemingly  _ emotionless _  German had previously felt. 

“Italy!” 

The panic in Germany’s voice was loud and clear, and it was impossible to misinterpret because it was so full of genuine fear. There wasn’t even as much as an ounce of hesitation in Germany’s mind, he knew exactly what to do. Yet, somehow, he wasn’t able to do anything but stare at Italy from a distance, helplessly. After a few moments, he finally reacted, and he ran over to him. He picked him up and it was first then he could see the real impact of the fall. He looked at Italy’s unconscious face, in complete and utter disbelief. Italy’s small nose had been entirely crushed by the extreme force of the blow, it looked extremely out of place, bent to the right side. Blood was oozing out of his nostrils and mouth like a flowing river. His forehead, cheeks and nose bridge were bruised and scratched by the rough texture of the ground. His lips were swollen, and his eyes rolled back so that only the white showed. Germany - nearly speechless - stuttered out a desperate “ _ mein Gott _ ”, before calling out for Japan. 

Japan had been running a little in front of Germany (since he wasn’t obliged to look after Italy such as Germany) and just as Germany he had stopped and turned at the sound of Italy’s scream. However, unlike Germany, he kept his distance and watched from afar (again, probably because he didn’t feel obliged to look after Italy such as Germany did).  Japan jogged over to them now because Germany called for him. As he approached, Germany noticed how his facial expression shifted the closer he got. When Japan was standing over Italy, he had a concerned crease in his eyebrow and widened eyes in shock. 

“I shouldn’t have pushed him so hard,” Germany whispered, mostly to himself. He didn’t say anything more out loud, but he continued the discussion with himself behind his eyes, inside his head. He bit down his bottom lip and furrowed his brows, battling the guilt that was soon consuming his thoughts. A strong hatred towards himself surfaced and the guilt tugged at his heart, making his chest burn with an unfamiliar pain – an annoying, mind-boggling pain, a pain so strong his heart was close to shattering. “I really should not have pushed him this hard.” 

Finally, after more battling with guilt and other  _ new  _ emotions, Germany finally decided to run. He ran, and he quickly reached their four-story home. He didn’t hesitate any longer. He placed the unconscious Italian gently on the couch, ran into the bathroom, got a towel and wet it. Then he opened the first aid kit and hastily grabbed hold of bandages and painkillers. He walked back into the living room, finding Italy, still unconscious, and Japan seated in one of the couch’s matching chairs, hands in his lap, head bowed down. 

Germany approached Italy, trying to keep his steps muted, afraid to wake him. He took another careful look at Italy’s face, trying to determine how bad the damage actually was. Carefully thinking, he kneeled beside the couch, inching closer to Italy. Germany figured it would heal nicely for the most part, especially if he got enough rest. Laughing to himself, he thought of the morning. Italy surely would have to get his way tomorrow. The laugh sobered, the strange feeling tugging at his heart again. 

“I should’ve let you eat breakfast.” 

He said it in an apologetic voice as if wanting to let Italy know he was terribly sorry, without having to apologize. Germany proceeded to simply look at him for a few minutes, trying to battle the anxious feeling that was erupting in his chest and grabbing hold of his whole body like thorny vines twirling around his arms and legs. The sensation only seemed to grow, though, as he studied him more. Italy looked so peaceful when sleeping. He always had that look of a content angel plastered on his face and his lips always tugged into a tiny smile. However, his whimpering, pained breath was like glass shards to Germany’s heart. The curl atop Italy’s head curled inwards and it reminded Germany of a burnt up and crumbled piece of thin paper. It had been a while since he had seen that exact curl – the last time he saw it was during the war when Italy somehow managed to get a fork stuck in the back of his hand. According to Italy that was Britain’s fault for chasing after him while he was enjoying a plate of  _ Carne al piatto _ . Another time was when Italy was forced into eating scones and drink hot Earl Grey Tea. That in itself wasn’t dangerous, but of course, Italy somehow managed to spill the hot tea all over his lap, resulting in some nasty (but luckily, not very serious) burns. 

When Germany turned his attention back to Italy he decided that it was best to treat Italy’s wounds before he woke up. Germany knew how loudly Italy could scream when pained and he didn’t want to guilt-trip even more. 

He started wiping away the blood that was flowing through Italy’s nose and mouth, the blood that had dried and stained to his chin and his swollen, blown up lips. Germany had thought that this wouldn’t be a particularly hard task to do and was therefore taken aback when he found himself stuttering, almost as if there was a poor internet connection and he was buffering. Watching the blood soak into the white fabric of the towel, he stared at it, feeling his chest tighten. It was hard for him to breathe properly and he had to think through every single breath he took as if it was the hardest thing in the world, even if it shouldn’t have been. His hands, they started shaking uncontrollably, without any real reason, and they started burning as if his hands were covered in bruises and burns. They weren’t. 

Germany continued cleaning Italy’s face and seeing how calm Italy actually was, Germany was reassured that he wouldn’t wake up. It calmed him to a degree – it calmed him enough to finish before long. 

“Okay, that should do it, I bet,” he said. It was mostly to himself, partially to Japan, partially to Italy. Germany started packing the unused bandages together, folded the blood-soaked towel, and left the painkillers on the coffee table in case Italy would wake up in a lot of pain, which he clearly would. He got up from his kneeling position and walked towards the bathroom to put back the materials he’s used. 

“Hey, Germany? Do you think it would be a good idea to prepare some food for Italy so that he can have something to eat once he wakes up? I can take care of that, while you watch out for Italy,” Japan said. 

Germany nodded. 

“You do know how to prepare pasta, right? I know it's generic, and that is for the best. He's stubborn with his foods. Make pasta with tomato sauce and fresh tomatoes. That’s his favorite.” Germany was almost out of the room. “Oh, and he loves having basil and fresh herbs on top!” he yelled over his shoulder, before disappearing out of the room. 

He walked on into the bathroom and quickly put the unused bandages back in the first aid kit and threw the towel in the clothes hamper. He sighed to himself, thinking of Italy’s wounds. Thinking of it, he grew annoyed at himself. 

“How could I be so dumb?” he said to himself, balling his hands. Annoyed, he took a sharp breath and sat down on the closed seat of the toilet. He tapped his fingers against his thighs, looking for the motivation to get up and face Italy after being so inconsiderate. He was sure he would get to hear it from him, whenever he finally woke up and started complaining of the immense pain. “ _ Gottverdammt!  _ What the fuck is wrong with me?” 

Germany threw his hands upwards in frustration, nearly slapping his own face with them. He rested his forehead in the palms of his hands, annoyed and angry. He was not sure of what he was so annoyed at. His own lack of consideration? His own unexplainable feelings that boiled inside of him? His tightened chest and pained heart? Or Italy’s lack of determination and control? All of them? All he knew, was that he was annoyed and pissed off and on the verge of throwing his fists into  _ something _ . A wall, the mirror on the wall, his own face, whatever would work. Inhaling another sharp breath, then sighing, he got up on his feet. They were like cooked noodles, unstable and frail. 

“ _ Verdammt _ ,” Germany muttered under his breath, stabilizing himself and regaining his tall, proud posture. He looked into the mirror on the wall, studying himself. He was indifferent. Pulling his head up, standing tall, he straightened the jacket he was wearing. He made sure every hair was in perfect condition, right where they were supposed to be. “You don’t have no god-damned feelings.” 

The smells of pasta filled the house, peering through each hallway and up each set of stairs. The aromas, sweet and strong, were somewhat odd and unbalanced. It didn’t smell quite like Italy’s. It didn’t smell quite as  _ perfect _ . When Germany left the bathroom, he was partially slammed down by the smell and how strong it really was. Way stronger than Italy’s for sure – since Italy’s made you hungry, while this had you yearning for fresh air. It was nothing that Japan could be blamed for, however, because no one could make pasta quite like Italy. His pasta was sweet, yet spicy, it was warm and cozy, yet cold and bold. Absolutely nothing could compare to Italy’s pasta. Not even other Italians could make pasta like Italy – there was just something about it that made it special. It could easily be said that there was a reason Germany was convinced into eating his pasta every day. 

Basically sneaking back into the living room, Germany looked to Italy first. He was still knocked out and showed no sign of waking up. Not even the heavy smell of unbalanced pasta was enough to force some life into him. Germany, heavy and pained, felt another blow off intense pain to the chest but forced himself to keep standing tall, proud, determined. He looked at Italy, waiting and hoping for him to wake up. Soon, in the corner of his eye, he could see Japan coming up next to him, with a plate of pasta in his hands. Japan stopped next to him and looked to Germany and coughed carefully. 

“The food is done,” he said. Germany nodded, not looking away from Italy. 

“Has he really not woken up yet?” Japan asked. Germany shook his head, not looking away from Italy. 

There was a long silence. Germany did nothing but focus on Italy. He listened to his breathing, heavy and trembling and forced through swollen, blue lips. He stared at his face, his broken, cleaned, bandaged nose, the bruises and pools of blood under his eyes, and the scratches on his chin and cheeks. 

“Doitsu?” Japan said, hesitantly as if scared for the reaction to come. Germany looked at him, barely, and grunted in the “what is it now?” type of way. “The food is getting cold. Should we wake him up?” 

Germany looked back to Italy. He thought for a few seconds, not entirely sure if that would be a good idea. Italy deserved the rest and desperately needed it to recover, but there was a point in what Japan said. The food was getting cold, Germany knew that Italy was hungry and in need of a meal, plus the UN-meeting wasn’t going to be skipped, no matter how much pain Italy felt. 

So, therefore, Germany approached him and gently shook him by the shoulder. 

“Italy. Wake up.” 

He spoke softly, not wanting to startle him. He shook him again, this time with a bit more force than the first time, but still in a gentle manner. It seemed to work because Italy fluttered his eyes open. As Germany could have anticipated, Italy immediately whimpered out in pain and made a strained expression to suppress the sensation. Germany’s stomach took a three-sixty-degree turn, a pain shot through his chest and a strong anger boiled inside him. He forced himself to not care and turned instead to get the painkillers and the glass of water off the table. He gave one of the painkillers to Italy, giving him the glass as well. 

After swallowing the painkiller, it wasn’t long before Italy was sitting up straight. He looked exhausted and beaten, but he still put on a sweet smile. Japan placed the plate of pasta in front of him on the coffee table, bowing respectfully as he handed Italy a fork and a knife, mumbling under his breath, “I apologize if it is not correct.” 

Italy looked at the plate of pasta, with big, sparkling eyes, the smile growing wider on his lips. He leaned forward, used the knife to shuffle a significant amount of pasta onto the fork, then pushed the fork into his mouth. He swallowed the pasta, then giggled. As if Italy’s smile was a ray of sunlight and his giggle fresh air, Germany felt that the room turned brighter and that the air was easier to breathe. 

“It’s better than Germany’s!” Italy suddenly laughed out. He sent the German a devious smile, a sparkle of mischievousness in his eyes, as he took another bite of the pasta. 

Germany’s eyes shot open and he couldn’t help but send the Italian an angry look. “My pasta isn’t that bad! You just have too high standards!” he yelled, nearly pouting, and he felt the crimson red coloring his cheeks and neck.  

Germany’s tantrum only made Italy laugh louder and it even made Japan choke out a small laugh. 

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” Italy muttered, giggling to himself, giving Germany a glance and a sweet smile. “I know that you love my pasta more than your own,” Italy continued, so silently that Germany felt he wasn’t actually supposed to hear it. 

In less than three minutes, Italy had finished the plate of food. He stood up straight, almost falling as he did so but stabilizing himself within seconds. He looked pained, still, he beamed a bright and wide smile and saluted Germany. 

“I’m going to go change! For the meeting!” he informed. Italy turned on his heel and skipped up the stairs, while he hummed the melody of  _ ‘Marukaite Chikyuu.’ _

Germany and Japan sent each other a look. None of them seemed to believe or understand how quickly Italy recovered from such a fall. Germany had been sure that he would receive a real scolding from him but all he got was his wonderful smile and his gorgeous laughter. 

Germany sent Japan a puzzled look, trying to ask him with the help of only his pair of eyes, “How can Italy still be so …  _ Italian  _ after that?” 

Japan sent a look back to Germany while shrugging his shoulders, answering with his pair of eyes, “I really,  _ really  _ don’t know.”    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _mein Gott_ : My God  
>  _Gottverdammt_ : God-damnit  
>  _Verdammt_ : Damnit


	3. Dazed and not alone

Italy skipped up the stairs, humming to himself, singing the lyrics to himself in his head.  _'_ _Draw a circle, that’s the earth. Draw a circle, that’s the earth. Draw a circle, that's the earth. I am Hetalia!’_ He took light steps with every hum, waving his arms back and forth in a timely manner. But he wasn’t really in that good of a mood. Inside himself, he felt the pain exploding, and every step was followed by white dots scattering across his sight, making whatever he saw in front of himself spin and become a blur of colors. He didn’t want to break the illusion that he was okay, however, at least not yet. Not when Germany was nearby, possibly and likely  _waiting_ for Italy to start complaining and crying and whining about the pain. What Italy himself couldn’t understand, was why he suddenly didn’t feel comfortable crying in front of Germany. Italy was easily said to be the whiniest crybaby of them all. He wore all his emotions when they came to him, and he never felt pressured to disguise his true feelings. Then, why? Why did he feel pressured to pretend that he was fine around Germany – his roommate and best friend forever?

Reaching the upstairs, Italy’s humming came to a stop. His bottom lip arose to trembling, and he let a sigh slip through his lips as he opened the door to his bedroom. Lately, everything had been so blurry and hazy. Next to Germany, he always had a hard time even remembering how to speak, let alone how to form full sentences in English. Italy, honestly, couldn’t understand his feelings. It had been like that for a while. And he still, even after all the time he had spent pondering over it, couldn’t decipher what it all meant. Another embitter sigh pushed through his closed lips and he pouted. These discussions he’s been having with himself never failed to annoy him, simply because he could not understand his feelings. It was unusual for him. If he was sad, he knew that he was, and most times he also understood why. If he was happy, he knew that too. But this, this he didn’t understand. Sometimes he felt happy around Germany, wanting to squeal of exhilaration and delight. Other times, he was sad. When sad, he tried to keep away from Germany, since he didn’t want to let him down. And that was also weird. He had never faced any difficulty crying in front of Germany. The problem was, he didn’t know why he was sad, and he could not cry about something that he couldn’t even explain.

Italy walked into the bedroom, closing the heavy doors behind himself. The very moment they came to a full close, he let his guard down – being immediately consumed by the overwhelming pain aching through every bone in his body. He broke into tears, and he tried to keep himself silent but could not help but let pained sobs break the silence of the room. Downstairs, Italy had managed to keep his act on, not once letting his sweet smile and laugh and giggle seem strained. It was first now, away from Germany and the feelings that Italy caught when around him, that he allowed himself to cry. But he quickly dried his teary-wet cheeks with the palm of his right hand, sniffing, and inhaling a deep, sob-full breath. He pulled himself to stand straight instead of hunched over like he was. He wished that he could be proud and stand tall like Germany.

Italy sucked up his act. His legs were weak and wobbly like jelly as he stepped over to the wardrobe, all the while ignoring the pain that was assaulting his body, immense and horrid. He opened the wardrobe and stared inside, looking for the outfit he usually wore to the UN-meetings. It was rather easy to spot, as Germany was the one to wash and fold all of Italy’s clothes. All the clothes had been folded neatly and were sorted into the different drawers. Every pair of socks had been paired together and stuffed into the top drawer, alongside the underwear. In the second drawer were shirts, and pants in the last one. Living alongside Germany’s perfectionist ways and the order he always strived for could be a mess, but it also made it easier for Italy to find exactly what he was looking for, at all times.

He pulled out the suit and placed it on his bed, then looked at it for a moment. It was a beige shirt with green stripes. Not a bright green but an earth green, a dirty green. Like the grass after the snow melts and washes over in spring, creating puddles of mud. It had matching earth brown pants that were too short at his ankles, and that was one of the many things that annoyed perfectionistic Germany. He always,  _always_  begged Italy to buy a new suit altogether, so that he could look decent for meetings, instead of a slob who doesn’t care. Italy didn’t feel that it was necessary as the rest of the suit fit perfectly, plus in some countries, it is seen as classy to wear suit pants with too short legs.

Looking at the suit, he whimpered softly, the sound being almost of the same kind as a cat's. Not even the smallest part of him was in the mood for a meeting right now. Yet, here he was, forced to attend, even if he was pained as ever. It was a usual matter though, as Germany was stubborn and set in his way. Italy’s temples throbbed, and he let out another immediate whimpering sound, throwing his head back. Then, he stopped and sighed, fiddling with the shirt that he was wearing. Italy, sadly knew that there was no point in expressing his pain or frustrations. The meeting was a meeting and with that a meeting that Italy had to attend. Even if he was aching.

The sailor’s shirt he was wearing was stained with blood on its blue collar. The blood had formed to a crust, and Italy picked at it, letting it fall to the floor. The white color had adapted a color of dull gray from the asphalt. The pants’ knees were worn through but there weren’t any holes, just a much thinner fabric that might tear a lot easier. Italy grabbed at the hem of the shirt with both hands, bending his elbows and raising them to the ceiling to pull it carefully over his head.

Suddenly, a sound. A loud sound of steps. Not that of steps approaching but of steps already in the room.

Italy froze. The hem of the shirt slipped down to cover his chest and stomach as he was no longer holding it in his hands. He was unable to react, unable to do anything at all. Simply standing, still like a statue, holding his breath. In his chest, his heart leaped. Fear was the only emotion he sensed, striking through his body like a lightning. The hairs on his back stood tall and a chill swept down his spine, leaving him with a scream – caught in the back of his throat.

Another sound.  _Bang, bang, bang._ It was a sound that reminded Italy of something and someone. The sound was very much like the sound of wooden spoons being banged against pots and pans. The same sound as when Italy played with the neighboring children, pretending that the pots and pans were a drum set and the wooden spoons the drumsticks.  _Bang, bang, bang._

Italy fell into a state of panic. An alarm went off inside his head, and he realized that there had to be someone in the room. In  _his_ room! Who? What? When? It all flashed before Italy’s eyes. Panicked thoughts, which did nothing more than fasten the pace of his pounding heart, making him feel that it was about to pound all the way through. From out of nowhere, he pulled out a white flag. Clutching to it tight, he waved it desperately, even though he knew himself that it would be of no use against this certain intruder. For someone to take their way into someone’s house and give them such a fright, they had to be of a personality that did not care to take pity for an Italian with a white flag. Italy was waiting for Germany to react from downstairs. He must’ve heard that; it was so loud. There was no way he had not heard that, even if he was still down on the ground floor.

Another set of  _bangs_ exploded inside Italy’s ears, so loudly and so close by that Italy squealed, closed his eyes, and waved the flag faster. He kept his eyes closed, dread blooming from within. He was scared – terrified even – to see who was having such a great time scaring him so badly.

“Please, don’t touch anything! It’s not yours! Don’t touch my bed, Germany paid for it! Don’t touch my easel, Germany bought it for me for Christmas! Don’t touch anything at all, Germany actually spent a lot of money on all this, so don’t, please, don’t touch anything!  _Per favore! Per favore!_ ” Italy cried beggingly, still waving the flag back and forth. He proceeded to open his eyes slightly, and he peeked through his eyelashes, still terrified of who he might encounter.

But he could see nothing. He could see no one.

With a puzzled, baffled, and yet startled look on his face, Italy fully opened his eyes. He looked to his left. He looked to his right. He looked in front and behind himself. But there was no one. He bent down to place the white flag on the floor, a simple gesture to show he would not do anything harmful to whoever was here. While already on his knees, he peeked underneath the bed frame, half expecting that someone was there.

There was no one under the bed. The only thing under it was an empty bag of Lays potato chips. Italy pushed himself up from the floor and slowly scanned his eyes over the room again. He felt riddled. Confusion chased after him. He had been tricked, somehow. Tricked by what? It was close to impossible for Italy to comprehend what had just unfolded. Footsteps and loud banging, but not a person in sight. There was no one in the room. Except … he had yet to check the en-suite bathroom.

Before walking into the en-suite bathroom, Italy took a deep breath. He knocked on the closed door and said with a shaky voice, “Hello? Is there anyone there?” Silence embraced him, somehow making him more nervous. “If there is anyone in there, please show yourself! I promise, I am not a bad guy and I don't think you're a bad guy either, maybe we can be friends if that is what you want. Let's be friends!” said Italy, nearly losing his breath talking. He knocked the door with a gentle knuckle once more before pulling his hands to his chest.

He waited. There was no answer from the bathroom, only the nervous, anxious silence that lasted for way too long. After a while of this silence, Italy grew tired of waiting and grabbed the handle. He pushed it down and peeked through the small slip that opened to him. There was no one there. The shower was empty, and the rest of the bathroom looked to be the exact same as Italy had left it earlier. He sighed out, relief easing through him. Then, in a split second, he remembered what had happened. Footsteps. Loud bangs. They could not have come from nowhere because that is not how sounds work, they must have a source. Italy’s small body trembled, a million thoughts racing through him at once.

Had he … had he hallucinated?

Italy’s breath hitched for a second. His head pounded, his hands shivered, and he felt the room spin around him – the colors of the wall merging with the wooden floor. Shaking his head, he took another deep breath, trying to concentrate on keeping himself standing. He couldn’t believe that he had hallucinated. Heard things that weren’t there. It had felt so real too. Had he really knocked his head so badly that he had gotten hallucinations? Was it the painkillers? He only took one, though. One wasn’t enough to make him hear things. Surely not. Then, what was it? Italy tried to think of what it could possibly be. He gave up rather quickly, however, and instead of finding a reason, he shoved the problem away to the back of his mind, forcing a smile and pretending that it never happened.

He walked back into the bedroom, hastily grabbing the suit, then walked back to the en-suite bathroom to check on himself whilst dressing. First, he removed the shirt that he was wearing. He pulled it over his head, his hair standing up to all sides. He threw the shirt to the floor, much to Germany’s perfectionistic annoyance. Italy so stepped out of the pants, tossing it to the same pile. When he had finally dressed himself, he turned his head and looked into the mirror, studying himself from head to toe. He had realized and known that he would look pained, but he hadn’t expected to find himself staring at the reflection in the mirror, in somewhat shock. With red and puffy eyes, a broken and bandaged nose, and swollen, bruised lips, he literally looked like he had been beaten up by bullies. His hair was ungroomed, and each messy strand of hair tangled into each other, making it look more like a bird’s nest than the usually soft hair of an Italian. Blood was showing through the bandage as a light pink, which meant his nose had started bleeding again.

“Oh,” he stuttered, surprised to see himself look so unappealing.

Seeing how surprised he was himself, Italy started thinking of the other nations that he would meet in not all too long. How would they react? What would they think? They would probably stare so weirdly at him and ask him tons of questions. Then came to mind, something much more important to take into consideration: how would  _Romano_  react?

Realization struck Italy, like lightning from a clear, blue sky. Romano would get to see him. His older brother Romano would see him looking like … a beat sack of potatoes. Romano would actually flip his actual shit. He would see him like this, walking in next to Germany.

“Oh,” Italy said. He could feel himself shrink at the thought alone.

Romano … well, he wasn’t that big of a fan of Germany. And he was surely not a fan of the fact that Italy was living in the same house as him. The very first time Romano met Germany, he immediately cringed. It wasn’t easy to know what he thought of him back then since he had stayed silent with his arms crossed over his chest when in his presence. But now, Romano openly said what he meant of the German, and none of it was any good.

Whenever Romano and Italy met, Romano would always ask, “When are you moving back home, Veneziano?” He always seemed so disappointed when asking, nearly sad even, nearly lonely. When Italy didn’t answer and only looked down instead with an uncertain look on his face, Romano would proceed to grunt and hiss, mumbling to himself, “I swear on Grandpa’s fucking grave that Germany is a bad man and not a man that you should be around. Let alone live alongside.” Though Romano mumbled it lowly, Italy could hear it clear as day.

That hurt.

Of course, Italy cared a lot for Romano. He loved him, much like a brother should. But who was he to decide whom Italy should talk to and whom Italy should live with! Romano didn’t know Germany, and Italy tried to explain to him at times, “Romano, please. Germany is really, really, really nice. You need to trust me! He does my laundry, he loves my food, he helps me treat the paper cuts I get when drawing sometimes, and best of all, he lets me sleep and cuddle with his buff body when I can’t fall asleep!”

The last fact was always a mistake to mention. Romano’s facial expression would turn extremely strained as he tried to keep himself from yelling, and he gave Italy a stare of what could only be classified as a death stare. Then he would get up from his chair and march off while saying with a steamy voice, “You even  _sleep_ with him?!”

That hurt.

Italy looked at himself in the mirror again. He knew that this UN-meeting would be a disaster, more so than ever before. Because he knew that Romano, without doubt, would think that this was Germany’s work. Italy shivered, knowing Romano would first yell at him, demanding  _the truth_ to be told. Then he would yell at Germany and tell him to keep away from him and his little brother.

An anxious feeling filled Italy’s stomach. It churned and flipped and jumped. He felt himself shrink even further, a sudden fear rushing through him. He wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Oh,” Italy whispered, realizing that Romano would use this as an excuse for Italy to move back home with him.

The thing was though, that Germany’s home wasn’t Germany’s home anymore. It was Germany and Italy’s home. The postbox said so. The tag on the front door said so.

_“Beilschmidt & Vargas” _

For almost two years now, the two of them had lived alongside each other in Germany’s grand German-style home on the outskirts of Berlin. Yes, they had gotten into fights. Many of them. But they didn’t fight like Romano probably envisioned in his head. They fought over little things. They fought over the mess that Italy made in the kitchen; the fact that Germany threw away Italy’s art by accident; what they should have for dinner. They fought over the little things that didn’t matter in the long run.

No matter what they fought over, Italy knew from the very bottom of his heart that Germany would never, ever lay a hand on Italy in such a matter. Never would he throw a punch at Italy’s face. Italy was certain of that.

No matter how many times they fought, they always made up. Never more than fifteen minutes after a fight, Italy would be sad that he hadn’t apologized to Germany yet. So, then he would walk to Germany, slowly and hesitantly. Germany, who always sat down on the couch to cool himself down after a fight, would look to him, then open his arms so that Italy could crawl up next to him. Italy would crawl as close to him as he could, then wrap his arms around his waist, and snuggle his head into Germany’s strong chest. Italy often cried, and Germany simply pulled his fingers through his hair; a simple apologetic gesture. Italy would apologize with frantic and blabbering words, panicking and thinking that Germany would abandon him. Assuring him that he wouldn’t, the two of them stayed like that for a while; simply cuddling in complete post-fight silence.

Germany was Italy’s best friend forever, roommate, and home. Italy was determined not to lose his best friend forever, roommate, and home, just because his older brother wanted so. It wasn’t for Romano to decide whom he talked to and whom he lived with. It was Italy’s choice.

With newfound determination, Italy left the en-suite bathroom. The moment he did so, he gasped out loud, again finding himself in a state of shock. He stared at the human in front of him with wide eyes and his breath caught in his chest. Tall and broad, with Italy’s white flag in hand and an olive-green tie hanging over his forearm. Blue, cold, and gorgeous eyes; and blonde hair. Clothed in a gray-brownish suit, clinging tightly to his muscular form, and a brown tie around his neck.

Germany.

Once Italy had overcome the sudden feeling of surprise, he raised his hand and threw it into Germany’s chest, while babbling uncontrollably, “Germany! Why are you standing here, you scared me so, super bad, and it isn’t funny so don’t laugh at me, I actually got really, super, duper scared!”

Italy pouted and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to look angry. Germany only laughed, slightly, a deep and rough sound. And though that annoyed Italy, it also made his heart flutter, butterflies roam his stomach, and his cheeks fire up with a dark red.

“It wasn’t like I was trying to scare you,” Germany assured once his laugh faded away. “I was actually here to check on you and to help you put on the tie.”

“Oh,” Italy replied. “Check on me? Why?”

Italy surely knew why. He understood that Germany must’ve heard him yell, as he happened to yell pretty loudly. For all Italy knew, Germany had probably heard him sobbing, even all the way from downstairs.

“I heard you yelling.”

Looking at Germany’s face, Italy saw a concerned look hiding in the blue of his eyes.

“What was it?” Germany asked.

Germany flipped his gaze so that he stared right into hazel. Why does he always do that? Why does he always stare right into his eyes, arguably right into his very soul? Again, Italy felt unable to look away. He was drifting away, not even part of existence any longer. Powerful; so powerful that he felt dizzy when caught under his gaze. Every second felt like minutes and every breath felt like a hurricane, wildly blowing up behind his chest. So strong, so bright, so blue.

Were they even normal eyes? They were so blue they might as well have been the ocean. Maybe that is why they always seem so deep; it was only the surface that was of such a light color. That was why Italy always felt trapped whenever locked with them. He was drowning. He was being pulled under by massive blue waves, so strong that it wasn’t possible for him to resurface. Trying to swim would only wear him out and no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn’t be able to break through the locked, foamy surface. Water hugged his body tightly, making it heavy, and as he drifted further down and further away from the surface, a heavy pressure weighed at his chest, making it impossible for him to breathe. That was it. Italy was drowning in Germany’s eyes.

“Italy, are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

Germany placed his hand on Italy’s forehead, and it blocked the view up to Germany’s eyes, breaking Italy free of whatever trance he was put under.

“ _Sì_ , I’m fine. I just feel a little dizzy,” Italy answered, trying to sound optimistic and indifferent. He failed, his words coming out as a quivering, silent voice. His hands shivered, and his breath trembled, something he was not entirely sure why happened. Under Germany’s cold, icy hand he felt both cold and warm and weak and powerful. This was so confusing. He always felt so many emotions and sensations at once.

Germany pulled his hand away, sighing silently. Italy felt a prickly feeling of disappointment arise inside himself. He wanted to grab his strong, large hand and hold it in his own. He wanted to cuddle with him, right now. The urge to touch him and hug him always felt stronger when it was just the two of them. And it always baffled Italy because he shouldn’t want to hug and feel the cold and powerful skin of Germany close to his.

“There wasn’t anyone here, right?” Germany asked. He took a good look around the room, peeking over Italy’s head inside to the bathroom to see if he could notice anyone. Italy shook his head with a force that made his hair stand up around him, falling and framing his face when he stopped. He folded his own hands in each other, feeling the embarrassment boiling underneath his skin, spreading like wildfire up his neck – painting his cheeks a dark red.

“Then. Was it …” Germany paused. He looked like he wasn’t sure if he should continue his question, his eyebrows knitting, creating a crease between his brows. It was an expression that Italy could not read, being both an annoyed one and a concerned one it seemed. He sighed and shook his head. “No, it’s not important what it was.”

A silence embraced them. Before, silence hadn’t bothered Italy because he always found a way to lead the conversation forth, without having to think it through. Now, he always tried to think of something fascinating to say, something of real meaning, instead of following his usual bad habit of blurting out stupid things without giving it any thought. Of course, Germany never gave anything that Italy said any thought either since he was used to his strange ways of being an airhead, never thinking of what he actually said before he did.

“I’ll help you with the tie, then we can go to the meeting,” Germany said. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then pressed the white flag into Italy’s hands. Their hands touched for a moment, and Italy’s heart skipped a beat, his senses heightening. He wanted nothing more than to press himself into Germany’s smell, the smell of flowers and cakes, manliness and the washed-down gunpowder of the past.

Then Germany’s hand withdrew, and he grabbed the tie, easily tying it around Italy’s neck. Italy wasn’t sure why Germany wanted to help him with it. Unlike shoelaces, Italy had no problem tying a tie. Not that he was one to complain about it. They stood so close to each other. Their chests almost came to a touch, their breaths falling into the same rhythm. Germany’s large hands fiddled with the tie, bumping into Italy’s chest and neck every now and then, making Italy feel more than a little dizzy. He didn’t understand why. Germany was only a friend – but Italy didn’t feel this way about any other friend he had ever made. That was what confused him so much. He had never felt this way about anyone. Not in a very, very long time at least.

“Okay. We’ll have to leave now.” Germany checked his watch, nodding to himself. “But ... Italy, I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to walk. I think that you should sit on my back.”

Italy tilted his head, slightly confused. He looked at Germany, who looked back with a tiny, forced smile on his face. He then turned and kneeled. Was he serious? Italy’s stomach jolted, his heart galloping inside of him at the sight of Germany’s backside. Hesitantly, he jumped onto Germany’s back and pressed himself into his back, leaning his head on his strong shoulder.

The smell of him was wonderful. He smelled like sweat and flowers and cakes. His bright hair smelled of the manliest shampoo, his neck was scented with a bold perfume. His fragrance was to love, and Italy inhaled all of it, never wanting to forget it, wanting to put it on a bottle and smell it every day. It drove him insane; so different from his own.

He wrapped and tangled his arms around Germany’s neck, and he grabbed hold of Italy’s legs, holding him up under the knees. Beaming a bright smile to Germany, Italy laughed, glad to know that Germany cared and always wanted the best for him.

“Thank you so much, Germany!” he cried, delighted and happy. He pressed his face into Germany’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and breathed in line with his steps. Happy, excited, overwhelmed by Germany’s wonderful smell, Italy soon fell asleep against his warm body; rocked to sleep by the German’s determined walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _Sì_ : Yes


	4. Romano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not uploading anything in a while. I've gotten really sick and I have a lot of things to do - like cleaning the house and studying for upcoming exams. But, regardless, I thought I'd get something up for you. There probably won't be any new chapters before far into next month, so I apologize for that.
> 
> Also, this chapter will clearly undergo some editing later, so, give me feedback if something seems off or something and I'll fix it when I edit.
> 
> Enjoy this extra long chapter!

There were many words that could be used to explain Italy. Germany had said them all at some point - sometimes to himself, sometimes to Italy. Loud, bright, happy, air-headed, weird, strange, different, annoying. Italy had been told of it at some point or another because everyone thought the same of him. However, Germany was starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, he had started thinking differently about him. Something had changed in his way of thinking, and he wasn’t entirely sure why, yet there was this feeling that came to him – a feeling he hadn’t felt before, a feeling that he wasn’t so familiar of. There were many emotions that Germany was uncertain of. He wasn’t like Italy. He couldn’t put his emotions and feelings on display, he did not want to wear his emotions for the entire world to see. Most times, he didn’t even let himself see. But lately, he had felt a change. And it was a change he was afraid of admitting.

“Japan? Do you know anything about…” Germany paused. He sighed, pursed his lips and knitted his brows. He thought of the Italian’s dazed look earlier. He had looked so lost, seeming overwhelmed and overcome by something. And he must’ve heard something. Or seen something that wasn’t there. To do that, he must have hit his head hard. _Very_ hard, even harder than Germany thought he did. “Do you know anything about hallucinations?”

Around the three countries, the wind blew gently, tainting Italy’s cheeks with a pink where he was sleeping, messing up Germany’s slicked back hair, and making Japan squint as he got dust or sand in his eye. The trees stood tall alongside the trafficked road, their twigs bare and their leaves twirling in the slight wind. With every car that passed by them, the colorful leaves twirled higher before floating to the sidewalk, painting the pavement with the earthy, autumn colors of red and orange and brown and yellow and dark greens. In Germany, this was considered the most beautiful time of year. It was cold, but not so cold that anyone would freeze. It was cold, but not so cold that rain would turn to snowflakes just yet. And with October and its celebrations approaching, it was also a generally happy and festive time of the year.

“Not a lot. I know that it means you either hear or see things that are not really of existence, but I cannot tell you why it happens to some. I have heard that high fevers or concussions can cause it. Why do you ask?” Japan answered. Even though he claimed that he did not know much about the topic, he said exactly what Germany had expected to hear. Japan turned his sight to Germany and sent a concerned stare to Italy.

“I think that Italy might have had a hallucination earlier. When he was supposed to get dressed.”

Germany wasn’t surprised when Japan sent him a look of confusion, a wide-eyed stare of surprise. He hadn’t expected that Japan had heard Italy’s scream and yell. Germany was used to that, for sometimes he seemed to be the only person that was able to hear Italy and tried to understand him and his strange ways. Japan had been next to him in the living room when Germany had heard Italy’s yells. _‘Please, don’t touch anything! It’s not yours! … Germany actually spent a lot of money on all this, so don’t, please, don’t touch anything! Per favore! Per favore!’_ He had sounded so terrified, pure fright resting in his loud screams. Maybe they hadn’t been as loud as Germany had heard them because Japan didn’t seem to notice a thing where he sat. Then again, it really was that way – Germany was sometimes the only one to hear Italy, at least when he was in pain or was scared in some way or another. It must have come as a result of Italy’s constant begging and praying and yelling during the wars. He always got himself into some trouble back then – and he still sometimes do – and it was always, _always_ seen as Germany’s responsibility to take care of him and get him out of said troubles. As his closest ally and all.

“What makes you think so?” Japan said, his voice low and questioning and curious. He looked at the leaves swirling under his feet when Germany turned his head in his direction.

“I heard him yell. At someone.” Germany let out a loud sigh, a sign of distress and care and concern. He made sure that Italy was still asleep before he continued what he was saying. “There was no one there, though. And he looked to be extremely dazed, and it looked like he had a hard time concentrating on what I was saying to him. He was also warm to the touch, warmer than usual, so he might have caught a fever or the hit to his head must have made his system go a little out of bounds.”

The leaves crunched under their feet with every step they took. The silence of the outside embraced them when none of them said anything further. The outside silence of the wind in the bare twigs of every tall tree, the cars zooming by them, the occasional other few that was out on their daily commute, and crunchy leaves under heavy feet. Japan fell into this silence, being a part of it, being another factor of the outside silence. Germany could not know what Japan was thinking of that left him so silent. But he did know what he thought of himself.

Italy. _Italien._ He tried not to use the German equivalent of Italy’s name too often, and it was mostly only when Italy was driving him past a certain point of personal annoyance that he used it. It had become the statement of an argument between them. Their arguments weren't really fought in a frightful manner. But sometimes awkwardness fell between them for extended periods of time. That was only if they fought for real. It had been a while since that now, but from time to time they still did. And lately, those _real_ fights had been happening over the strangest things. Simple, strange things that they had never thought over before.

Germany sighed internally and bit his own lip, his sight falling to the ground. Their friendship had become strained. Forced even. And it didn't help that Italy had been acting weird. Stranger than ever before. At times, Germany was so tired of his way of acting that he wanted to tell him that he could move back to Italy, back to his brother.

Maybe he didn’t notice it himself, but he was acting very strange; either being extremely happy or so down that he didn’t even want to eat pasta or gelato. When Italy acted like that, Germany felt overwhelmingly many feelings at once and he was so uncertain of what any of them were supposed to mean. Annoyance and impatience were understandable to him, but the sensation of sadness, curiosity, and overwhelming concern felt so unnatural. Still, it all boiled inside of him, turning him irritable and uneasy.

Even if he occasionally wanted to kick Italy out of the house there was something bigger that rushed through his blood; something that made it nearly impossible for him to leave Italy behind. This bigger feeling was … different from anything else he had felt. Making his heart beat faster and louder than it ever had and making him feel soft and vulnerable. It made him want to pull Italy close to his chest, sense his heartbeat against his chest, stroke him over his hair, and make sure he was okay and happy. Because right now – and for some time now, really – Germany hadn’t been sure if Italy was okay.

Another word to describe Italy, at least for the last six months, would be _mentally unstable._ And Germany wanted to change that, but again, there was always something that stopped him from doing all this. His lack of way with words and his own pride as a man.

The two conscious countries with the sleeping one, walked with slowed steps as they approached the huge building. It was in this building that all countries met for the important world- or UN-meetings. Germany’s steps slowed the most. He wasn’t sure if he should step into the building, let alone waltz right into the meeting room. It was a given that all the others would give him terrified stares. It was a given that Romano would go completely nuts; explode in such an anger that the whole building fell on their heads. If he didn’t, that would be a real shocker.

As Germany and Japan trudged into the building through a set of tall glass doors, escaping the easy wind outside, Germany began feeling _scared_. Yes. _Scared._ Romano, despite his small frame, was a real machine of horror when the angry beast inside him was unleashed. He could, most likely, kick Germany into a wall with an impact so large that Germany would fall into a coma. If angry, _really angry_ , he could _kill_ Germany. Straight up murder him. Surely.

The thing was, Germany could not skip the meeting. He was a man of his words, and he was a man to always meet to meetings – even if he lost both arms and legs, went blind or deaf. So, he took a deep breath, locked eyes with Japan - who also seemed to be nervous for the reaction of their fellow countries - then they both looked at Italy. He was still fast asleep, and his lips were still somehow curled up into a tiny, beaming smile. They looked back to the closed double doors of the meeting room they had been assigned, Germany nodded, Japan nodded, and then they gave the door a push. It creaked to an open state.

The room was a source of noise. Around the long, round table the nations were gathered. They sat next to the ones they enjoyed talking to or the ones they enjoyed teasing and fighting with, and the loud rumble of talk was a proof of this. However, the very moment Germany stepped foot inside the room, the chit-chat faded to whispers and eyes were pointed at him, burning into his shoulder and Italy’s hair. Some of the ones in the room stopped talking altogether, intimidated by Germany’s presence. Most of them were. Germany was used to it – they always acted differently when he was there.

“Is Veneziano asleep? I’m surprised to see that you let him sit on your back like that, _potato bastard_.” It was the voice of a certain Italian. An Italian that Germany was slightly scared off, mostly annoyed at. Romano. “You usually never let him take a _siesta_ during the day, so why now?”

Germany searched for the source of the voice, looking for Romano’s dark hair and weird Italian hair-curl. He turned himself around and took a few steps further into the room when he saw Romano walking in through the double doors. Germany felt a weird feeling grow inside of him, and it grew as Romano looked him over, studying him from top to toe. Romano’s expression was a weird one, one of anger, annoyance, and suspicion. When he looked at Italy, the suspicion written on his face became clearer and easier to catch a glimpse of, and in a split second, an unbelievably short period of time, his face struck with anger and rage. He raised his hand, pointed his finger straight, took a step closer to Germany and poked his finger into his chest. He let out a silent growl of anger, his eyes locked with Germany’s.

“Why … why has Veneziano’s face been bandaged?” Romano asked, his voice a low, strained whisper.

“He fell,” Germany answered quickly. He grew anxious, sensing the anger that bloomed from within Romano. He gulped, afraid to break eye contact with the Italian standing in front of him.

“ _He fell_ ,” Romano repeated with a teasing and annoyed tone to his voice. “When the fuck did he fucking fall? When the fuck did he fall so hard that he _broke_ his nose?! Do you think I believe such a stupid excuse?!” His voice grew louder and harsher, almost to the point where Germany flinched. He didn’t, and instead, he took a deep breath.

“Yes. He fell during our morning training. It is not an excuse, it is a fact.”

Romano laughed. Not because he thought it was funny, but because he found it as unlikely as could be. “ _Yes, he fell during our morning training, it is not an excuse, it’s fact_ ,” he repeated, again with the same teasing and annoyed tone to his voice. He said it like it was nothing but a mere joke. Then, in a second, he turned back to the angry beast he was, yelling up at Germany with a rotten, accusing voice, “Tell me what the _fuck_ you did to my brother or I’ll have to force it out of you!”

It was this sentence that woke Italy up. On Germany’s back, he jumped up at the loud voice and winced. Immediately after, he let out a loud whimper and clutched his arms tighter around Germany’s neck – making it harder for Germany to breathe.

“Germany … it hurts a lot now,” Italy whispered into Germany’s ear, still loud enough for Romano to hear it too. Italy opened his eyes slightly and Germany looked at him. A feeling filled Germany’s stomach, a feeling that wore no name for Germany, totally unfamiliar. “Can I sleep? Can I sleep in peace? Can I cuddle in your bed with you? Please, please?”

No, what was he saying? How could he say such embarrassing things in front of everyone? Did Italy not know how to feel any shame? This was to be expected. Italy had just woken up, he probably did not even know where he was yet. Still, Italy did not sound tired. He did not sound to be in a daze, in fact … he sounded to be fully aware of what he was saying. But no, of course, this was to be expected, Italy never thought through anything he ever said. He blurted out all sort of things whenever and wherever. That was a fact, and somehow Germany could not help but feel the emotion with no name grow larger inside of him, making his insides burn of all unfamiliar colors of happiness and anger, annoyance and sadness.

“Italy, we are at the UN-meeting. Wake up, “Germany said silently, trying not to attract more attention than needed.

Romano did not care about attention or not, “What hurts a lot!? What did Germany do to you!? And stop saying such things, Germany is a bad man and I’m not letting you sleep with him! Can you answer my questions already!?”

Italy’s grip around Germany’s neck grew weaker, but he dug his face into Germany’s shoulder. “ _Fratello, smetti di urlare,”_ he groaned into Germany’s shoulder, and he said it loudly so that he was sure Romano could hear. Germany did not understand a single word of what was said. _“Germania non è un uomo cattivo. Non mi ha fatto niente. È stata colpa mia.”_

Germany still could not understand a single word of what was said in Italy’s beautiful language. Every word of his flowed off the tongue like a melody, soft and wonderful. _Wunderbar_. Much prettier than Germany’s language would ever be. Sure, he could not understand what was said, but it did not make the language and Italy’s lovely voice any less heavenly.

 _“Cosa ti è successo?”_ Romano replied to whatever Italy had told him. His voice had softened, and his stare wasn’t as angry or harsh as before. Whatever Italy had said, it seemed to have calmed Romano down.

“I fell.” With that, Italy laughed a gorgeous laugh, a giggle that would light up any room and make any rainy day a day with rainbows. “I fell, _fratello. Sono caduto!”_

Then, Italy’s laugh faded as quickly as it had appeared, and he broke into tears, breaking Germany’s heart to pieces and dropping Romano’s mouth open.

“It really hurts, Germany,” Italy said through sobs. He dug his head into Germany’s shoulder and let the sobs break with the whispers of the meeting room, making every other sound in the room sound like mere nothings. Germany felt his chest tighten, just like it had done earlier. It had done the same thing when he heard Italy’s cry. Germany’s hands started shaking again and it felt like the burned of terrible bruises that covered them, just like they had done when he cleaned off Italy’s bloody face. Germany’s mind went completely blank with panic, just like it had done when he heard Italy’s terrified screams ‘ _Per favore, per favore!’_.

Germany did not know what to do. For once, he did not know how to react or what to do about it. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to pull Italy so close to himself that there wasn’t even the smallest gap of empty space between them. He wanted to make sure he was okay. And he wouldn’t let go before Italy was no longer in pain. But no, what was he thinking? He couldn’t do that, he shouldn’t think that! There had to be … less inappropriate options. For some reason, Germany grew extremely annoyed at himself, again wanting to throw his own fist into his face. He didn’t.

Instead, he carefully let Italy down to the wooden floor. He was not sure of what to do after that, but he let Italy down to the floor. Italy carefully and slowly slipped off Germany’s back, seeming hesitant. When Italy’s feet landed on the floor, Italy was quick to let out a loud cry of pain. Again, panic wiped across Germany’s mind, leaving it blank and colorless. Then, Germany felt a small, warm hand tugging at his, and the blank canvas was painted with colors of pink. Italy took a step, a very careful one, but even with the additional support and balance of holding onto Germany, Italy could not keep himself standing. He tripped over his own feet, his knees giving under for the weight of him. Italy let out a whimper when he fell to his knees, and he placed his forehead on the wooden floor with his arms pulled up under himself, crying – screaming.

Both Germany and Romano looked to Italy, unsure of what to do next. Then, Romano sent an angry look to Germany, as if expecting that Germany had the definite answer. So, Germany –who was not sure at all of what he was doing – kneeled next to Italy. He hushed, a calm hush to calm Italy down, and grabbed his hands, pulling him up to his knees.

He looked at Italy. He looked worn down and tired, his eyes barely open, his cheeks wet with tears. His mouth was slightly open, and through it escaped trembling breaths and silent sobs. His head tilted to the side, his hair framing his small face in such a beautiful way. He looked so innocent and so pained. His expression was enough to make Germany’s mind fall to a slight state of helplessness.

He stared, no immediate resolution coming to mind. Then, without thinking through it, without giving it a single thought, without thinking of where he was and who he was in this place, Germany pulled Italy close to himself. He pulled him so close that there was not a single gap of empty space between them. It was their bodies and their bodies only. Italy’s overly warm skin pressed into Germany’s cooler one. It was the only resolution Germany could come up with and it was the only thing that seemed right.

Italy inhaled a sharp breath – a sharp inhale of surprise, being taught the element of sudden shock and unexpectedness. He sobbed loudly into Germany’s chest and his arms wrapped around the buff waist, his hands grasping onto the brown suit-jacket. But he stifled his next sob and held his next breath, looked up at Germany and locked eyes with him. Tears sprung from his eyes, never-ending streams of hot, salty water. His bottom lip was shaking, timorous as he looked to try to stop the sobs from escaping him. Then, he talked, softly and heartbreakingly, a soft whisper meant for Germany’s ears only.

“Germany, I’m sorry for being so weak.”

Germany could not help himself but feel a warm and cold, electric strike rush through him. A rush of emotions that wore no name, a strike he could barely explain. This feeling again. It wasn’t new, but it was still one that was unfamiliar to Germany, even after all the times he had felt it over the last six months. It was a tightened chest, it was a deep and trembling breath, it was warm, it was cold. It was a mixture of all emotions that Germany knew, all soaring through his body at once. He could form no words that would be of a worthy reply to Italy. He wanted to say something – he wanted to apologize, but not a single word was formed in his mouth and not a single apology could rise from the thoughts of saying it. All he could do, all he knew how to do, was pull Italy close again and wrap his arms around Italy’s small frame and run his fingers through Italy’s soft hair. That was always his apology when he knew no words or when the words he knew came in short. And he hoped that Italy understood. He really hoped that Italy could understand the meaning of all that he did when he was not able to express himself in the same way that Italy always was.

Germany’s jacket and shirt and tie were now damp with Italy’s tears of pain. Listening to Italy’s sobs and feeling his quickened heartbeat against his own, guilt chased through Germany’s veins. This was his work. This was his doing, this was his fault. He could not shake it off because it was the truth. Yes, Italy had fallen, but whose fault was that? It was Germany’s. It was his fault, all the tears that Italy spilled, they were all because of him, all because he never considers others’ feelings and needs.

Slowly and carefully, Germany stood himself up. He helped Italy as well and made sure that he was able to stand by wrapping his right arm around Italy’s waist and leading Italy’s hand up to Germany’s shoulder so that he could lean against him. And he did. He leaned his body against Germany’s right side, landing his head on Germany’s forearm.

“I am going to keep an eye on you, German,” a voice said aloud. It was Romano, glaring at Germany and his brother with a weary stare. “Veneziano, start taking care of yourself, you dummy.” Romano turned and left, taking a seat beside Spain, who had kept his head out of the discussion between them.

Without saying anything, Germany picked up Italy. Hearing Italy’s pained sobs and imagining the ache he was going through, knowing it was Germany’s fault, his fault for pushing him beyond a certain point – that Germany knew existed from the very beginning – made him burn up with guilt and responsibility and gloom. He had no choice but to take care of him, not after he led Italy down this road of immense pain. Italy could barely stand. He was not to take care of himself now, not under these circumstances.

Italy, he dug his head into Germany’s chest. Germany could still feel tears wet the clothes he was wearing. Could he not just stop crying now? He wished. But he stifled his annoyed and saddened sighs, patting Italy’s back instead. He sat down on a chair around the long, round table with Italy sitting on his lap. Germany sat down just in time for the meeting to start – just as the clock struck eleven.

"Everyone get to your seats!" America walked in through the door. He was just on the clock as usual. Not late and not early, but just in time – as he said it himself. He walked to the end of the table, where he sat down and looked out on all the other countries in the room with a superior look written on his face. America had called himself out as the leader of the UN-meetings, and though everyone disagreed, he somehow held his position. "We're going to start the meeting guys, so get to your seats!" With that, he pulled a burger out from a brown take-away paper bag and pushed it down his throat. Such an American thing to do that it physically hurt to watch him devour the burger whole.

Even if everyone was in disagreement about the _fact_ that America was the so-called leader of the group, his words and orders still forced everyone to their seats, whether they liked it or not. Britain walked to the end of the table, the same end that America was at, seating himself on a chair across from France. Japan had already sat himself down in the chair next to Germany’s, and China sat in the one next to him thereafter with Russia across from him. The rest of the countries sat scattered about, taking the seats that hadn’t been taken, not saying much or doing much. The Nordics sat in a cluster next to Romano and Spain, discussing with them when they could come for their next visit. Those odd Nordics – they were suckers for the warmer countries; Romano, Spain, and Italy all the same.

As it always was, regardless of who called in sick and who was the leader for the day, the meeting was the mere definition of a meeting gone unsuccessful.

Britain and France lashed out their anger on each other, fighting over foods and films and other things they apparently did much better than the other. America kept butting his head into their fight, calling himself the hero and the better of all three of them, therefore declaring that their fight was useless. To that, France and Britain butted their heads together and yelled at America, making the argument a two against one. That was what France and Britain always did. They fought with each other if they were alone, fought together if one of them was threatened by an outsider.

Russia came up behind everyone, creeping them out by threatening to pull their heads off and add it to his growing collection. China was the exception, simply rolling his eyes at Russia’s stupid threats, even if it made Russia spark with a playful anger.

Japan did what Japan did best – refraining from speaking and sitting awkwardly around, not doing anything at all.

Unlike it always was, Germany didn't give the other nations a single glare, not even as much as a single thought. Usually, he would yell and try to resolve and stop the fights that were unfolding, to maybe get something productive out of the time they spent in this meeting room. Today, Germany sat there, being of just as little use as everyone else. With Italy on his lap, he couldn't care less about the meeting, and he could surely care even less about the fighting that was developing and storming around him. He rocked from left to right, right to left, hushing and calming, comforting Italy to the best of his ability. Germany held Italy close, hugged him tightly – but carefully – and sensed Italy’s heartbeat. It had calmed a lot since the meeting began – like he had gotten over the pain and was content and okay now.

Right at this moment, Italy was all that mattered like he was the only person in the world. He was warm, warm to such a degree that Germany was rather concerned for him. What this was, Germany could not explain. Why he felt the sudden urge to never let Italy out of sight, never let him out of his reach and grasp, Germany certainly did not understand. Never had he felt it so strongly before. He had felt it during the war before, but it had never been so strong and overwhelming. There was no reason for him to feel it any stronger now than before – it was not like Italy would not be fine after this. Still, the feeling of wanting to be a protector was present within him, making it easy for him to press himself closer to Italy and his smell, his scent. So … _not manly_. He smelled of flower fields, his soft hair smelled like honey, and whatever perfume he wore smelled like … a women’s. He was not manly at all, was he? Being so soft, his skin feeling like that of a baby. It always bewildered Germany, who was used to a man’s skin being rough and a man’s smell being of either wood or farmland or the strong scent of citrus-scented shampoo. Not … like the very smell of girls in crop-tops, men without shirts, and water against the light beach. But even if it was different, Germany envied Italy and always sought out to get a whiff of his wonderful, flowery fragrance. Being this close to him, inhaling it sharp and deep, he felt that rush of envy through his veins, boiling. An irrational anger flashed before his eyes, an irrational annoyance soared through him – painting his insides with red.

As Germany was caught within himself and within Italy’s smell and tears and silent, hitching breaths, he did not pay any attention to the ones around him. All there was, was his own thoughts and Italy, the two of them in their own little bubble of confusion and pain – both Italy’s outer pain and Germany’s pain of inner confusion and anger that he for some odd reason was having to deal with.

It was first when Germany jumped up at the sudden sound of hands being slammed into the table that he drew his thoughts away from the complicated mess of tangled emotions. America was standing at the end of the table, the leader’s position, with his hands firmly planted onto the wooden plate that was the table and a weird expression written over his face – an expression of annoyance.

Italy certainly flinched at the commotion that America made, and he turned his head to look at him. Germany looked at his face now that he could. Tears were still scrolling down his cheeks. The bandage was wet with them, blood showing as a darker pink than earlier. His eyes were puffy, his lip was trembling. Again, for what seemed to be the millionth time today, Germany felt the urge and the need to protect and to hold and to comfort him. But he did not get the opportunity to.

"Are you guys even listening at all?" It was America. His voice was different, almost angry. His sight was directed at Italy, the stare of his deep blue eyes falling in the same path as Italy’s dark amber ones. America’s stare was intense, deep, and he looked to stifle a sigh and bite his lip. He seemed to look for something to say, something that would get their attention or the right words to something he was trying to express. “I, as the leader of today’s meeting, suggest that Italy takes his leave. Germany – approved?”

Germany fell into a state of sudden surprise. Italy, too, looked to be surprised. His eyes widened, his mouth made the shape of an O, and he turned his head to look at Germany. It seemed he did not know what to tell the German – it looked like he wanted to beg, it looked like he wanted to cry, his head tilting slightly, revealing soon-to-spill tears in the corners of his eyes. Of course, Italy should not take his leave!

“Why do you think so? You cannot give me such a suggestion without a single opinion as to why!” Germany said, with a loud voice, a harsh voice to suggest that he was not in agreement with what America had suggested. Across from him, Romano sent Germany a wary stare, a stare that screamed, “If you approve of this, I will literally bash your head into the wall over there.”

"I mean that he should leave. He should _leave_! He is not helping us out, is he?" America shook his head to himself. He flipped his gaze to Germany’s. He looked to be slightly intimidated, but he kept the stare locked. He spoke up again, "Germany, you didn’t even raise an eyebrow when the rest of us were fighting. You didn’t slam your hands into the table and you didn’t yell like the crazy German you are. You sat there. With Italy – like the small and incompetent baby he has proved himself to be – on your lap. Dude, he is a distraction. He’s so a distraction.”

That was another word to describe Italy: a distraction. He was a distraction. He had always been a distraction. Right now, he was being a distraction. Germany wasn’t focusing on the meeting and the things around him because Italy was occupying every single, small part of his brain, almost as if taking over his whole system and making it impossible for him to think of anyone else or anything else. He was invading him with his innocent way of smiling and crying and speaking and laughing. And maybe Germany did not understand entirely – never being able to understand feelings and emotions that were out of the ordinary for him – but he was certain of one thing. Italy was like a drug; a distraction to Germany.

Still, there was no reason for Italy to take his leave. It was not just Italy that was being a distraction and of no use. Germany was the one being easily distracted. Germany was also being of no use – and that was a new concept, unlike Italy being of no use. Italy was usually never of no use during meetings, regardless if he was pained or tired or rested. If anyone should leave the meeting that day, Germany thought to himself – not finding the words to explain this to America – was Germany himself.

“He is a distraction,” said Germany, not thinking before he spoke. Italy’s face lit up with sadness, his sight darting into his own hands, trembling and quick breaths spilling through his soft, swollen lips. Romano’s expression maddened, his cheeks flaming with red. He pushed himself up with his hands to the table, beginning his march to the other side of the table. Germany sighed and sent a determined stare in America’s direction – speaking with a sharp, deep voice, _“But he is not going anywhere.”_

Nothing changed around Germany. The air was still heavy with anticipation; Romano was still walking with resentful, furious steps towards him with balled hands and red cheeks; the room was still silent. Germany’s words remained caught in the back of his throat, and no matter how hard he tried to force the sentence off his tongue, they did not even budge. Italy remained on his lap with a sad, lowered stare, whilst he could not get himself to say something as simple as, _“But he is not going anywhere.”_

“You – you bastard. You German, _potato bastard!_ ” Romano’s screams were clear messages of hate. With fastened steps, he approached rather quickly, and Germany had still not been able to speak his mind. The words were glued to his tongue, even when Romano stood over him. “You are not allowed to touch my brother, I will never let you lay a hand on my brother again!”

Romano grabbed Italy’s hand and pulled him off Germany’s lap. Italy slid off hesitantly and had to lean himself against his older brother to stand. Sobs escaped him and embraced everyone in the room, thickening the air with an awkward silence; a silence of sobs and sniffs. Romano tried to pull Italy with him out of the room, but his brother stood still, not moving as much as a muscle in any of his legs.

“Spain, come over here and help me!” Romano commanded, and Spain came running to him immediately. He picked up Italy and walked slowly out of the room, hushing calmly to him.

Romano followed Spain, but he stopped when he reached the double doors. He turned and glared at Germany with angry eyes, red cheeks, and balled fists. “I’m not letting you get away with this! If you think that I will let you talk to my brother again after this and after the – the beating you gave him earlier, then you are fucking stupid!” He paused, catching a breath before moving on, “Fuck off, you ugly, stupid German. Fuck off!”

It looked like Romano could continue his speech, having enough steam in him to yell and scream and swear at Germany till the end of time, but he was interrupted by Spain who came back to yank him out of the room. Romano kept swearing as he was pulled out, and he shut the door closed as he left, the bang sounding through the meeting room like a shot.

“No, I’m serious, Spain! I’m never letting him get close to Veneziano again!” Romano yelled, the anger resting in his voice, thick and clear.

“But Romano, he did nothing wrong!” Italy whined, his voice sounding desperate and sob-full.

“Shut up, Veneziano, I’m not talking to you right now!”

“Romano, calm down,” said Spain, his voice calm and hushed.

“Shut up …”

The three voices faded with the length of time that went, and soon their voices sounded like quiet whispers before disappearing completely. With their voices fading away, the silence seemed to grow louder than ever. No one spoke, but the silence was still louder than any sound Germany had ever heard before. He suddenly found himself interested in the tiny crack in the tabletop, studying it with a careful stare. Every little noise in the room sounded like boulders falling from the sky, every breath sounding like a strong and enormous gust of wind. Someone coughed, most likely feeling overwhelmed by the strong and rather awkward silence that embraced every single one of them. Germany pulled his finger over the crack but pulled it back when he felt a splinter dig into his finger.

“Well,” someone finally spoke up. The accent was thick and sounded to be painted with the very smell and taste and sound of Earl Grey tea. It was Britain, and his voice sounded both anxious and certain all the same. “We shall end the meeting. America – approved?”

America, who also looked to be set back by the awkward and loud silence that embraced them, turned his head to look at Britain. Britain took a sip of tea and smiled slightly at the so-called ‘hero’, America.

“Yeah, sure thing, dude. Approved.”

Standing himself up, America shot a wide grin to the rest of the nations; pointing his fingers at himself as he cried, “The hero, who is me, dismiss all of you!” He spun around and stepped away, already asking the other leaving countries, “Y’all want to take a bite at the nearest McDonalds?”

While the countries around him immediately fell back on their hustle and bustle ways, talking loudly and gossiping about the thing that happened mere minutes ago, Germany stayed put. Elbows leaned on the tabletop, sight fixated on the small crack. Acting was no option; all he felt appropriate was think and stay silent. Think about Italy and his face; think about what he had done, and let the silence embrace him and remind him of what loneliness feels like.

Did he really feel lonely already? Yes, and he couldn’t deny it. Just him. No sounds and no touch; and no one to take back home.

Did it bother him? Yes, but he didn’t want to admit it; not entirely. Not to himself, not to anyone else. Why; he didn’t know. It was denial, it was fear, it was uncertainness; it was a long series of emotions he could not explain. What was he supposed to do with them, really? That he did not know. Being unfamiliar with feelings was Germany’s only certainty. The rest was all part of a frightening and unwanted experience. If it could stop. If only it could come to end, leave him alone, and stop bothering him. When did they first occur? He couldn’t remember, not clearly; all he remembered was the night sky and the cold snow and Italy’s pink-tinted cheeks. Maybe he didn’t want to remember. Not understanding why they happened to surface and torment him, he tried to forget the first time these unfamiliar and heart-wrenching feelings came for him. As if forgetting would force them to disappear.

“Germany?”

The sudden voice was more than enough to steer Germany’s train of thought of the rails. Jumping slightly in his seat and turning his head to the source of the sound, he collected his thoughts and forced them to bother him another time, and elsewhere.

Turns out the voice was Britain’s. With the infamous cup of tea in his hand, his other hand swirling the teaspoon through the drink, he looked at the German. He sat down in the seat next to him, face as serious as he had ever seen him.

“Are you leaving now, or will you stay behind to finish your paperwork? If you are leaving then I’ll give you a lift since it’s pouring rain outside,” he said, the accent clear as day and his tone serious and factual.

Germany thought to himself for a while. Normally, he would stay behind, since the meeting was arranged in his country this time. Normally, he’d stay a few hours to finish paperwork with Italy before leaving to grab a bite with him. Today, he could already tell that he would not be focused enough to do any sort of work, let alone paperwork. Italy wasn’t there and somehow that was hard to come to terms with; even if it shouldn’t be. It would be of no use to stay; he wouldn’t get anything done regardless.

“I’ll leave. I’m going to do the paperwork at home. You don’t have to give me a ride, though, I can walk.”

“Oh no, oh no, I insist that I drive you home. There’s no need to worry, the hotel I stay at is in the same direction, so I insist,” Britain returned calmly, standing himself up. He picked up the cup and turned on his heel to leave the room. “You can wait in the lobby, I’ll have to clean up the cup and put it back.”

Disappearing out the door, Germany was once again left with only his thoughts and the silence of the room. It was honestly unexpected that Britain was so insistent, but at this point, it was too late to thank him no. After all, he was going in the same direction, so it wasn’t going to be bothersome. Still, Germany was slightly scared, mostly because Britain sometimes forget to drive on the right side of the road, instead of the left one. Chills swept down his spine at the thought and he stood himself up, hastily grabbing his paperwork from a desk in a different room, taking them with him to the lobby.

Seating himself in a red, comfortable chair, he flickered through the papers. The words and letters and sentences were big blocks of black against the paper, with lines to sign and decisions to be made. Germany only sighed to himself; when Italy was around he loved doing work with the Italian. He was never of any use, but he could come with important viewpoints; sing songs that made him relax and enjoy the tedious work; cuddle with him when he was getting bored and tired. Surely, Germany could do without all that, but it had become a part of their routine; and a rather important and fun one at that.

Now, what was he thinking again? There was no reason to think so much about Italy. Mind was filled with his very laughter and the image of his beaming smile, and somehow, he could not bring himself to not think about him. There had to be something mighty wrong with his brains today. Guilt, right? This was the feeling of guilt; he had not even had the opportunity to apologize. Guilt it was, and there was nothing more to it. Just guilt.

“Are you ready to leave?”

For the second time that day, Germany was pushed off the train of thought by Britain. He stood ready with a coat over his shoulders and his car keys in hand.

“Now, let us go.”

Beginning the walk towards the door, Germany helped himself up, grabbed the large pile of paperwork and continued in his steps. Outside it was – just as Britain had said – raining; pouring in extreme amounts and creating large puddles on the paved roads. The row of parked cars outside were brutally assaulted by the streaming water, the sound violent and loud. Both were soaked the very moment they stepped outside, Germany’s hair sticking to his cheeks and forehead, and the water soaking through his jacket and shirt. He desperately hid the paperwork under the jacket; some of the pages already balls of flimsy strings. Great, now he would have to ask for his boss to print out new ones; exactly what he wanted to trouble his boss with.

Hurriedly walking, trying to not get wetter than needed, they quickly reached the car and sat themselves in; glad to be out of the raging rain and harsh autumn wind. Both males dripping wet, they stayed silent between one another as the British turned the engine on and drove out on the open streets.

Luckily, he remembered to drive on the right side of the road. In the silence of the car ride – the only sounds being the rain against the windows and the humming roar of the engine – Germany stared out the window. Berlin was a beautiful city. Usually, they never had UN-meetings in any other space than the headquarters, but then again this wasn’t a true UN-meeting; it was just that they called it. In fact, it was more like a world meeting or ‘almost every single country but not all’ meeting. Since they had no name and grew lazy and uncreative, they used UN. And they settled with Germany’s because they saw him as a serious and hardworking man (and because none of the others wanted to deal with the paperwork). As the countries drew by large buildings, some old and some new, the rain seemed to calm slightly; the thuds to the windows silencing. That was when Britain broke the unsilenced silence.

“I don’t understand how you can walk this distance every single time,” Britain chuckled as he slowed down in front of a red light.

“Well, it is not hard; it’s just placing one foot in front of the other and repeating. It’s not rocket science.” Germany kept his gaze on the streets outside, watching the coffee shop be left behind as the light turned green. “It’s less pleasant when it is raining, but it’s still possible.”

“So, how do you feel after … what happened?” he asked lowly in the tea coated voice; stare still fixated on the road ahead of him.

Germany only grunted. He didn’t feel much, right? And he did not feel anything that was of importance for Britain.

“It is obvious to see that you are troubled,” he continued. He glanced at the German briefly and chuckled silently. “If you are worried that Italy will be kept away from you for good, then you should realize that it is not going to happen. Italy is stubborn, and he can easily convince his brother. Trust me with that.”

Surely, he could convince his brother. It was more the fright that Italy might not want to come back that bothered Germany. Sighing, he looked at Britain – noticing a small smile on his face.

“He might not want to come back,” Germany said, trying to sound like it wasn’t anything he cared for.

“Germany. It is painfully obvious. It is only you and Italy that cannot see what everyone else sees.” Britain let out a silent laugh and turned silent seconds later.

Approaching Germany’s house, he steered the wheel and stopped in front of the house – quickly waving him off. Then he reversed and continued his drive by himself, leaving a confused German to simply ponder what he had been told.

 _Painfully obvious._ What was painfully obvious? There was nothing that he could think to be obvious at all. There were only the usual things – Italy overreacting, Germany … well, seeming strict and unphased by that.

Unlocking the front door and slipping inside – closing the door with a slow and steady hand behind himself – he sighed. Distressesed, uncertain and sad. A salad bowl of different emotions tossed together with a dressing of that one feeling; that single feeling that owned no name. Large, it was; growing with every step into the house. Hushed, calm, only the rain knocking on the windows breaking with the peace. Troubled by the emptiness and the undying weather, Germany entered his home-office – tossing the papers to the desk.

Peace.

Calm and soothing peace, and the lovely sound of his own breath. Oh, how he loved the silence. Paperwork that could be finished by himself; cups of coffees without milk or sugar; no distractions – no noise. This was his wish. Complete silence and peace, save for his own steps and breath, weather and cars passing by. His secret wish, it had been. A sinful wish of wanting to kick the Italian out, live for himself again.

Somehow, with his wish a reality, he was not so sure. Italy in a different house seemed foreign and forbidden even. Italy living in … well, Italy, was such a weird thought that Germany found himself to hate the silence he had so desperately wished for.

Italy shouldn’t ever have moved in with Germany, really. He shouldn’t live in Germany! Yet, he did – and it was his idea. Like some game, a second opportunity to mess with Germany’s emotions, “Germany! Let me move in with you!”

After leaving their alliance and turning his back on Germany – essentially destroying their so-called friendship – he still dared to come back. Running and yelling and smiling and exclaiming and laughing and being annoying! That was all he did.

Germany had disagreed. His boss had disagreed. To let a former ally live in their country - such an unprofessional act; a country moving from the very land he represented - that was not something that could be allowed. So, no was the answer. It was the answer the first time, the second time, the third time, the tenth time.

Honestly, Germany and his boss had lost count of the number of requests when they decided to give in; much to his distress and Italy’s happiness.

In the beginning, it was weird, and it was painful. The very house was transformed, and silence turned to a rare and rather golden time. Had Germany hated having Italy back? He could not say that he did, because that would be a partial lie. Was he in ecstasy? No, that he was not.

Gritting his teeth together and loosening the tie, he couldn’t help but wonder why this made him tingle. It had been one year and eleven months since Italy had moved in, and that was bliss. Germany flickered lightly through the stack of papers on his desk whilst pulling his wet hair back. But not a single word was readable, and not a single thought was understandable. Only one. Only the one of concern for Italy and his broken nose and pained expression. This one thought was the one thought that mattered.

He picked up the old-school, classic, black and shiny phone from the desk. A deep breath was inhaled as he dialed the number – the digits burned into his memory. Rain touched down on the roof over his head and peppered the windows. That was the only sound. That, and the rush of blood through his ears and the swooshing sound of the phone.

No answer. As expected. Romano had likely taken Italy’s cell phone away so that Germany couldn’t contact him. A typical move of him – a very unsettling and possessive move. Maybe it was with pure intentions, but if it was the case, Italy must’ve been heartbroken and furious; as furious as the happy-go-lucky could get.

Dialing one more time, Germany sighed. He didn’t expect a different outcome – he hoped but could not expect anything.

“Hello? Germany?”

An answer. Italy’s voice, hoarse and sniffling running in a beautiful flow out the end of Germany’s phone. Uncertainness was within it, pending between happiness and surprise. He was too easy to read, even from simple noises.

 _“Buonanotte,”_ Germany said, knowing it would earn a smile from the Italian on the other side.

And so, he did. He could practically hear how Italy’s lips tugged to an open smile and when he let out a loud giggle, he could not help himself but smile too. A sniffle and a laugh later, Italy finally spoke again, “Germany! I’m so glad that you called, finally! I thought that you were tired of me and that you actually meant what you said at the meeting and that you didn’t want to talk to me anymore! I was so scared!”

“Oh,” Germany uttered, a flustered look climbing up his face. He was immediately cut short by Italy’s continuing babbling.

“I’m not sure if we can talk for long, Romano is in the shower right now but once he’s finished he’ll come back and if he finds out I’m talking to you he will be really mad, and I don’t want that!”

Italy could surely learn a thing or two about calming down and talk at a normal pace. Surely, he was stressing to tell Germany all this. He seemed to want to tell him so much, in the short timespan he had to do so. But Germany had to tell him something, too.

“Italy, calm down. Let me speak!”

He stopped talking, a heavy breath sounding from the phone.

“Are you feeling alright?” Voice was genuinely filled with concern and care. He hoped Italy was okay – hoped he wasn’t in pain. If he could, he would apologize to him with words, but he already knew that he would never be able to bring himself to say that. Even if he wanted to.

“Ve, Romano asked the hotel staff for bandages and stuff, but they only had so much of it. He cleaned it and it hurt a lot and then he bandaged it, but it looks very messy. Oh, and there is only a single double bed in this room, so we have to share a bed and the bathroom is very small with only one sink and a tiny, tiny shower!”

There he went again. Rambling without answering the question asked. That was one of his specialties. Slightly annoying, at least when Germany tried to gain some answers to ease his worried state of mind, but also a good sign – it meant Italy was fine enough to act like his normal self. So, maybe Germany got his answer after all.

“And I have to eat the hotel restaurant’s food for dinner since there is no kitchen here and I hope that they serve something that I find tasty. Oh, and wine! And what if there is a pretty waitress there?”

“Italy, please, can you stop talking and listen to me for a moment? You can’t complain that we have little time and then talk about things that aren’t important,” Germany interrupted and sighed. “You will meet at the meeting tomorrow, right?”

“ _Sì!_ And after we’ll go home, and I’ll test out the new pasta recipe!” Italy laughed, a loud and bright sound of happiness. It was enough to make the German smile and his stomach toss, his chest tighten and his mind stop for the second. “Right, right, right, right?” he continued, his voice loud and his breath like a puppy’s.

“Right. If you help me with the paperwork, that is.”

Was he trying to negotiate with Italy? Could be said so. He wanted to make sure that he could spend the next afternoon with Italy. Loving laugh and silly conversations and Italy’s head leaning against his shoulder as he grew tired. That was what he wanted tomorrow to be; a simple way of apologizing with non-spoken words.

“Oh-kay! Germany, Germany – tell me _buonanotte!”_

He wanted to; it was not there that the problem rested. It was in the loud, sudden yell of a certain someone else. Demanding, frightening, chilling; steaming with displayed anger.

“Frat-…” Italy began, being interrupted by yelling within seconds. Italian yelling and Italian swearing, and the classic, well-known Italian tempered voice. Strong and stern and without the sugar-coating. Pure; that could be a description. Real could be another one. But Germany settled with something else to describe Romano’s voice and tone and choice of words: Mean.

With a strangled squeal, the Italian started rambling to the German. Hurriedly, he yelled out into the phone, _“Gute Nacht,_ Germany!”

And then the call was abruptly cut off.

On Germany’s side of the line, Germany was but left to listen to the silence from the ended phone call. Rain against the window, slamming down on the roof; his own breath in deep and trembling lungs. A silence, loud and disturbing; with nothing to cut through it other than his own frustrated sighs. He pulled his fingers through his dripping hair and slammed down the phone.

On the other side of the line, Romano was yelling loudly and angrily at his brother, while forcibly pulling the cell phone out of Italy’s tight and determined grasp. Italy screamed back at his brother in sad disbelief. A massive flow of tears scrolled down his cheeks as he lost grip of the phone and with it lost his grip on Germany. Curling to a ball on the bed with his face buried in his hands, he sobbed. Heartbreaking, lung burning, throat tearing; every sob burning through his body like wildfire spreading through dry grass. Romano left the hotel room, phone in hand; threats lingering on the very tip of his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> \- Fratello, smetti di urlare: Brother, stop screaming  
> \- Germania non è un uomo cattivo. Non mi ha fatto niente. È stata colpa mia: Germany isn't a bad man. He hasn't done me anything. It's my fault.  
> \- Cosa ti è successo?: What happened to you?  
> \- Sono caduto: I fell  
> \- Buonanotte/Gute Nacht: Goodnight


End file.
